wondering what to do next, I walked up to
"Well, Mr. Kendrick," said I, "you're falling off a lot of banks
this week, aren't you?"
South Orleans now became
our summer home, and each year in early July we would pack
the automobiles to the gills and move down. It
was a long trip in those days. Barring mishaps it took about five and a
half hours with Eddie Green driving, and with my
mother nearly two hours longer. We always broke the
trip by stopping at Bridgewater for an ice cream soda. My
mother had decided that the Bridgewater milk was safe from typhoid
contamination because we had drunk it so often without getting sick. In
Boston she felt that Huylers was the only place that
could be trusted. At any unfamiliar soda fountain she would always ask
the clerk where their milk came from, and if she re-ceived a
satisfactory answer we were allowed the soda. With my father, however,
anywhere was acceptable; an ice cream soda was an ice cream soda as far
as he was concerned.
Still another Bridgewater attraction was a horrid little purple
breath sweetener sold under the name of Violet Breath Hearts.
The heart-shaped objects had a violet flavor, and were as good as any
candy I had ever tasted. I always stocked up with several boxes at the
beginning of the summer because Bridgewater was the only
place I knew of where they could be bought.
In South Orleans, we started off with two boats — a ten foot
sharpie with a leg-of-mutton sail and a bad lee helm, and a row¬boat
named The Appendix, for one of my father's hypothetical ailments. We had
an Evinrude outboard motor that we used on The Appendix. It was heavy,
noisy and temperamental but